


Mornings

by orphan_account



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: F/M, I wrote this in the midst of a group of boring middle aged women, On a PHONE
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-07
Updated: 2016-10-07
Packaged: 2018-08-20 01:00:38
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 736
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8230772
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Anathema was not a morning person.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Just a random fic that talks about sunrises for too long.

The sunrise shone through the window, reflecting from Newt’s glasses and casting shadows on his face. Dashes of citrus shades spiraled on the walls, dancing along the white surface and flickering like peach coloured old films.

  
Newt squinted at the blurry smudge of colour in his vision, blindly feeling around for his glasses. He was relieved to find them relatively quickly, recalling the time Anathema hid his glasses in the morning and giggled while he stumbled across the house.

  
Turning his head to look at her, a small smile appeared on his face. Her hair was sprawled across the pillow messily, and Newt knew it would be sticking up in every direction when she woke up. Her eyes looked strangely plain without her thick eyeliner, but in a good way. It made her look less like the witch he was hunting, and more like…well, Anathema. Not Anathema Device, however.

  
Anathema Pulsifer.

  
A surge of happiness filled him, as he looked at his wife and still tried to get over the fact that he was really married.

  
His heavily magnified eyes moved over to the window, the slightly cloudy sunrise beaming through the window. Newt beamed back, knowing that it would probably be the only colour he would see in the sky all day. He had learned to appreciate the peach hue that took over the horizon every day.

  
Today, however, was particularly pretty. It was just something about the way the pearly clouds were positioned, the specific citrus hue, that were somehow more…vivacious.

  
“What a beautiful day,” Newt breathed, eyes reflecting the view, the ombre swirl of colours swimming in their murky depths.

  
Anathema groaned, rolling over, hair streaming over her face. She squinted at Newt, in all her early morning moodiness.

  
“What did you say?” she asked, rubbing her eyes.

  
“I said, what a beautiful morning. And,” he paused, smiling mischievously, “what a beautiful night, last night.”

  
The witch merely rolled over, a tiny smile forming on her lips.

  
“You’re so corny,” she moaned.

  
Newt bit back a retort and simply smiled back, attempting to fix his mess of hair.

  
“Did you make coffee?” Anathema inquired, face buried in her pillow.

  
“No,” Newt said, sounding slightly reproachful.

  
“Then what kind of a husband are you?” she complained, sitting up and missing her hair.

  
“I only just woke up!” he exclaimed, defensively.

  
“We’re getting a divorce,” she called jokingly, making her way to the kitchen.

  
Newt sat contentedly for a few seconds, before stepping out of bed, yawning. He caught a brief reflection in the bedroom mirror, and quickly examined himself.

  
His hair was a mess, as always. No surprise there. His eyes were slightly bleary and he looked a little disheveled, but he was a morning person, so he didn’t look too bad.

  
Anathema hated him for it. She was not a morning person.

  
“Isn’t there a name for drinking coffee? Like, catching the morning bean, or something?” he pondered, sauntering into the kitchen. Anathema gave him a dubious look over her steaming mug of coffee.

  
“That was the weirdest thing you’ve ever said, and you’ve said a lot of things.”

  
Newt looked defensive. “It’s a thing! People say it!”

  
“No they don’t, Newty.”

  
“They do!”

  
She simply sighed and shoved a mug at him, the liquid inside a light hue, tainted with all the things he liked in his coffee. Anathema glared at it, in all it’s weak, overly sweet glory.

  
She was not a morning person.

  
Newt smiled, leaning towards her.

  
“You know, the morning is nice, but, you’re much nicer than any morning,” he smirked, saying the line as if he’d rehearsed it.

  
“You need to stop with these awful lines,” Anathema said exasperatedly.

  
“I thought that was really good!”

  
Anathema rolled her eyes. She couldn’t quite conceal the glimmer that shone in them, cutting through the early morning gloom. She moved closer to his face, already so close to his, and kissed him sweetly, looking into his eyes reflecting the fading sunrise.

  
“Do you still hate me?” he breathed, the taste of her black coffee on his lips.

  
“Yes,” she smirked, brushing her hair from her face. “We’re still getting a divorce.”

  
Newt grinned and sipped from his mug, the taste of the sugary drink not quite as sweet as the taste of Anathema’s lips.

  
Anathema was not a morning person.

  
But the mornings weren’t so bad with Newt.


End file.
